


Just the Right Amount of Excitement

by Ranowa



Series: Extraordinary [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Getting Together, John is having the time of his life, M/M, Mycroft is smitten, Mycroft's Meddling, Post-Reichenbach, Stand Alone, Wizard John Watson, and poor confused greg just needs a nap, everyone else is a muggle, it's basically Magical World Travel: The Fic while greg subsists on coffee, muggle sherlock is a menace and a fire hazard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ranowa/pseuds/Ranowa
Summary: In the course of one afternoon, Greg learns that Sherlock is alive, John Watson is a bloody wizard, and Mycroft Holmes wants to ask him out for coffee.He's pretty sure the third thing is the most shocking.(Or: the five stages of courting, as taught by the British Government)
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Extraordinary [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663825
Comments: 50
Kudos: 249





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people wanted more of Sherlock doing magic things in the previous bits of this series, which is a fair thing to expect, from a magic Sherlock AU! Which is how this came to be: Sherlock and John sending back snapshots of their magical Great Reichenbach hiatus in the background, while Mystrade happens in the forefront. One of those things might sound more interesting than the other, but I didn't quite have it in me to write the former, so... here we have my first serious try at Mystrade :)
> 
> If you just want the Mystrade, you don't need to read the earlier installments, and it's fine if you don't know HP, either. Basically, John's a wizard, everybody else is a Muggle, which came to light during Reichenbach, and now, Sherlock and John are off on much more light-hearted Reichenbach adventures while Mycroft and Greg wrestle with the fallout and themselves back home.

The picture showcased Sherlock, John, and a sphinx.

Greg had never been to Egypt, before. He'd never been farther from his home than a school trip to Germany, actually, but he could still recognise a sphinx when he saw one, and that was what it was. A life-sized lion's body that was curled up like in the sands of the desert like a gigantic cat, tail wrapped lazily forwards, and a human face and head that blinked dolefully at the camera, with long, braided hair and a gold necklace to boot. An actual, living, breathing, _alive_ sphinx.

And next to her was an actual, living, breathing, _alive_ Sherlock Holmes.

He was a bit hard to recognise, without the trademark coat and scarf. Greg supposed even Sherlock hadn't been able to bear it, while in the desert _._ But there he was. Sitting there wearing a cooling head scarf around his wild hair and another protecting his pale shoulders, and beaming brighter than the bloody desert sun. One arm looped around the lazy sphinx's neck, and the other around an equally equally alive, equally pleased with himself John.

"Um," he said.

The picture was also moving. It wasn't just a picture, whatever it was, but it clearly wasn't a video, either. It was like a live video chat, but they just weren't aware they were being filmed. Sherlock and John were both busy bickering to each other, Sherlock trying to look back and talk to the sphinx while John kept tugging him back to make him look at the camera. The sphinx, while Greg watched, lazily lifted a paw, licked it, and settled back down.

"Yes," Mycroft said. "Quite ingenious, isn't it?"

Greg had no earthly idea what he was referring to. It could've been one of any dozen different details. He really didn't care which, at this point.

Swallowing, his head feeling vacant and light and just a bit downright dizzy, he scrolled the email down, and read the caption underneath it.

_I have a new best friend. Her name is Salihah, she loves riddles, and says she'd agree to come back to London with me if I let her try a mincemeat pie._

_Possible problem: she might try to kill me when she discovers there is no meat in mincemeat. Another problem: John also says he'll kill me if I bring Salihah to visit London. Hmm._

_Important question, have you ever met a sphinx? They eat you if you can't answer their riddles. I think you should meet one._

_With all the lost love that there is between us, which is to say none,_

_SH_

_PS took care of Egyptian cell, John hexed the ringleader into growing a bat for a face. Willingly turned himself in after that. I love John, did you know that?_

_PPS I love magic._

_PPPS I do not have a new best friend; that was simply a turn of phrase. John is still my best friend._

Greg blinked.

"Um," he said again.

Mycroft smiled slightly, in the way that only he could, which was looking as if he'd just taken a bite out of a rotten oyster. "Yes," he said, swiveling his monitor back around so Greg could no longer see Sherlock waving at him as he cuddled with a sphinx. "I wanted to delay explaining this to the relevant parties, until we had a more serviceable cover story. However, John threatened that if I didn't tell you the truth at the soonest possible opportunity, then he would infest my home with Cornish pixies. And I think he was telling the truth, so..." He gestured over his desk at large, the smattering of files detailing the so-called _Lazarus Plan,_ the cups of tea. "You're welcome."

Greg sat still in the overstuffed, overly fancy chair. He blinked dumbly once.

So. This really hadn't been what he'd expected, when called into Mycroft's basement secret office at the Diogenes Club. And what was this, anyway? What the hell was _this?_

"No," he decided, finally.

"...No?"

"Nope. Sorry." He sat back in his seat, his arms folded very, very tightly, pointedly ignoring the smug plate of biscuits between them. Only Mycroft Holmes would try and conduct whatever this was over _tea and biscuits._ "Don't believe it, sorry. I don't know what you're up to, but I don't believe any of this--magic, or-- _Christ."_ He rubbed his face in sheer exhaustion, completely flabbergasted, and no small part of him really just wanted to hold his aching head in his hands and never look up again. "I thought John was _dead._ He dropped off the map right after Sherlock, and I thought he'd..."

Well, never mind what horrible things he'd thought. Never _mind_ that he'd been terrified that John had offed himself in the wake of Sherlock's suicide, because he wasn't dead, and instead-- "Now you're telling me he's not only alive, he looks like he's on a _bloody vacation?_ With _Sherlock?_ Yeah, sorry, Mycroft. I don't believe it."

Mycroft smiled again, almost coy about it. "He is on vacation, as I understand it. Thought I believe the most accurate term for it would be a honeymoon?" He tapped his fingers along the desk, tracing a very thin file marked _confidential._ "John tells me we missed the happy announcement."

Greg, not for the first time today, wondered if he might've had a stroke.

No. This was... no.

This was all Mycroft's idea of-- not a joke, because it wasn't fucking funny. But that was what this was, wasn't it? Mycroft wanted to try and assuage Greg's guilt over his _brother's suicide,_ and the fact that John had probably followed him off the ledge right after it, and he'd invented this cockamamie story about snipers and Lazarus plans and _magic_ to explain away the fact that Sherlock and John were still gone but not dead. _That_ was the only explanation that made sense. That was the truth, and it had been haunting him at his heels ever since he'd seen blood spilling around the pavement outside Barts with a shattered John sitting limply on the kerb beside it.

Not this nonsense about sphinxes, and wizards, and _magic._

Well, if this was what it looked like when Mycroft was grieving, then Greg wanted nothing to do with it.

"Hmm. Yes. I thought you might be a bit reluctant. Sherlock was as well, by how John tells it." Mycroft paused to watch him again, taking another sip of tea. The look on his face was enough to make him want to quit on the spot, crawl all the way home into bed, and never come out. "Check your phone, please."

"What?" Greg glared across the desk, yanking his phone out with irritation throbbing in his jaw. If Mycroft's government fingers had been digging into his messages again, if he'd hacked into his phone just like Sherlock, _again--_

Sure enough, he had one new email. An email dated just two minutes ago, from John Watson himself.

It was the same moving picture of Sherlock, John, and the sphinx. This one, with a caption of its own.

_Hi Greg. Hope you're doing well!_

_Sherlock sends his regards, as do I. (Well, Sherlock sends his regards to Gavin, but you know.) I'm quite sorry that you had to find out like this, but Mycroft and Sherlock have sort of tied my hands here, with their worst plan in the history of plans. I can promise you that everything Mycroft is telling you is the truth. Unless he says that I was in on it. I wasn't. And I'm still a bit pissed off about it, to be honest._

_Sherlock's not dead. You were always meant to arrest him, and he was always going to jump. Neither of us did anything wrong._

_So: cheer up, mate. Sherlock and I will be back as soon as it's safe. Until then, feel free to give Mycroft a whack on the nose. This is 25% Sherlock's fault, and 75% his._

_Just maybe give him a hug afterwards, too. Believe it or not, Sherlock isn't exactly proud of how things have turned out, and I imagine the Ice-Man isn't either. Even our friendly neighborhood 'sociopaths' need a little TLC every now and then :)_

_Take care,_

_John_

_PS: If you want me to prove magic exists, there's an owl waiting at your flat with a delivery of Firewhisky. Don't drink before operating any heavy machinery, or around anything especially flammable that you care about._

_PPS: Nobody will believe you if you tell them :P_

Greg glared down at the email, and found himself even more befuddled than before.

"You lot... you all a bunch of _bastards_. You know that?"

Mycroft shrugged primly, his fingers interlaced together over the top of his desk. "As we've been reliably informed." He paused to level another steady, careful gaze at Greg, just as unreadable as ever. It should've been a _crime ,_ that he managed to be so calm about this. "John is telling the truth. He was unaware of our deception when he left London. If you wish to be angry at somebody, then Sherlock and I are the deserving targets."

Yeah. _Yeah,_ Greg thought, covering his mouth with one hand, a disparaging snort caught in his throat. Yeah, he should say so.

The silence dragged on. Sherlock and John continued waving up at him from his phone, and the sphinx continued her long, lazy blinks.

He honestly felt a little dizzy, but if there was anybody he was going to show that to, it wasn't bloody buggering _Mycroft Holmes._

"So," he said finally, phone dropped to his lap. "To sum up. Sherlock's alive and somehow faked jumping off a rooftop, and is a bastard. He's on fucking vacation, with John, who is-- apparently a wizard. Because wizards exist, now. And you're a bastard, too. That about covers it, then?"

Mycroft's smile grew just the slightest bit strained. But, without protest, he nodded. "Yes." He sipped again at his cup of extraordinarily fancy tea, the corners of his mouth tight.

And there was something about him sitting there, wearing his three piece suit with expensive china in hand and planning how to best fake his brother's suicide right in front of Greg, and his best friend, and the _whole bloody city_ that made this all _too much_ to take.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Greg was a DI... or at least, he had been, before Sherlock's apparently fake suicide. And Sherlock Holmes was about the max level of the fantastical that he could take. Sphinxes, a magical John Watson, and Mycroft in any capacity was somewhere way past his limit.

"Nope," he said again, and rose to his feet.

"Yes. I had a similar reaction, when I met my first wizard." Mycroft settled back, appraising Greg with a steady, almost-smug gaze that was just creepy. "Would you like to discuss it over a cup of coffee?"

"Would I... what?"

"Coffee," Mycroft repeated. "A hot, caffeinated beverage that can be found at any reputable establishment in the city, and while not comparable to the Diogenes Club's tea, absolutely acceptable to carry out a conversation over. Your credit card statements suggest that you particularly enjoy the sort purchasable at _Prufrock Coffee_ as a luxury?"

Greg rubbed his empty head, and not at all for the first time that day, wondered what exactly the symptoms of a stroke were.

"Why do you know my name, but Sherlock still can't be arsed to remember it?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a put-upon air, amusement bright in his eyes. "He remembers your name. He just entertains himself by observing how high he can raise your blood pressure in a single conversation. I promise," he said, his smirk fading into a barely softer smile, "coffee with me is slightly less stressful."

Greg pinched the inside of his wrist.

Nope. Mycroft was still there. All smug and proper, and... asking him for a coffee.

"Hmm," Mycroft murmured, when the silence simply dragged on. "Interesting. Anthea insisted I ask you for a coffee. Perhaps you would be more inclined for a tea after all?"

Greg pinched the inside of his wrist again, held his breath, and counted to five.

"You're creepy," he said, with what he hoped was a very decisive air of finality. "Sherlock's a bastard. And I'm leaving."

Mycroft smiled slightly again, again tipping back another sip of tea. "You are, of course, sworn to secrecy about everything that you have heard here today."

"Or I'll be exiled to magic land, is that right?" Greg rolled his eyes and turned his back, striding for the corridor as fast as he could. "I'll find my own way out, thanks!"

He headed down the unbearably luxurious Diogenes Club to the outside world once again, still completely dazed, lost, and shellshocked. But, thank god, alone.

Sherlock was alive. That was, unquestionably, good. All right, maybe he wanted to knock him one, just a little, but Greg knew all he'd really do if he saw him right now was hug him. Bloody mad bastard, but he was _alive._

John was a 'wizard'. That was... okay. All right, then. Not sure how he felt about that. Greg was pretty sure, if he had to put a word on it, it was somewhere between _don't believe it_ and _what the actual buggering hell?_

And Mycroft was...

Texting him.

Greg closed his eyes in the lift, and this time, counted to ten instead of five.

_Unknown number:_

_I will see you again very soon. Best wishes -MH_

"Creep," Greg muttered again, and thunked his head against the wall.

* * *

That night, Greg stopped at _Prufrock's_ on his way home, and very purposefully ordered a tea that he couldn't afford, and put it on his credit card. Then he sat there, in full view of the nearest CCTV, and drank the entire thing while staring at it, and pointedly refusing to check his phone.

When he got home, the very first and only thing that he noticed was the huge, snow-white owl perched on his window sill. It was visible all the way down from the street below, right there in broad daylight. Greg wasn't the only one to skid to a stop and stare at it, his eyes wide and his hands limp with shock.

Even from down on the street, Greg was almost positive he could see the promised bottle of whiskey, affixed to its leg.

"Bloody _hell,"_ he said, and for one very brief moment, considering turning his back, walking right back down where he'd come from, and never setting foot on this street again.

Maybe coffee with Mycroft wouldn't be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> I promise, the other chapters have much better interactions between Mycroft and Greg, and some more fun sprinkles of Sherlock and John's magical adventures-- I just needed this exposition to get them off the ground. Hope to see you next time!
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the comments/kudos!!!
> 
> Onwards!

Mycroft's _I will see you again very soon_ warning was swiftly defined as _eight days later,_ and materialised as one long, black, very distinctive car idling on the kerb outside New Scotland Yard, at seven thirty in the morning.

Greg heaved a very long, very unhappy sigh.

His back hurt, and his wallet hurt even worse. The tube was three blocks away, and a taxi to his new flat cost more than he wanted to think about.

Not there was any reason to announce either such fact. Mycroft probably knew at a glance exactly which part of him was the most sore, and carried a mental tab of the exact amount of change in his wallet.

Fine.

"I'm only doing this," he said, slid into the backseat and pointedly staring straight for the window as he buckled his seatbelt, "because it's not even eight yet, and I'm tired. Take me home."

Mycroft's knee shifted in the corner of his eye. Somehow, even the bloody knee looked smug. "Home was the intended destination," he assured, and rapped on the glass. A moment later, the car rolled back into motion, and Greg set about nestling his head as comfortably as he could into the seat. And looking anywhere but at Mycroft.

It was easy, he'd found, to not be angry at Sherlock. Sherlock had very intentionally scared the living hell out of him, taken a sledgehammer through his career, and made him think, however briefly, that he was responsible for the suicide of someone he cared deeply for. But all of that was swept underneath the fact that Sherlock was alive. He was a massive idiot but he was alive, and the relief of that was enough for Greg to no longer be even the slightest bit upset. Not with him.

It was even easier to not be angry at John. Sure, John hadn't made it any easier on him, disappearing like he had, but John hadn't known anything more than him at the time. The fact that John was not only alive but clearly out there, having the time of his life, was all Greg could've asked for.

Well, he could've asked for a _slightly_ less baffling explanation. But the point was, Sherlock was alive, and John was alive, and both them were okay and happy and he didn't know _how_ this nightmare had turned out like this, but he was grateful for it.

But Greg had still sat through a disciplinary hearing demanding to know why he'd let a _sociopathic fraud_ have the run of his division, and he'd not had an answer, because _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_ wasn't an answer. He was still getting off the third shift of endless filings of paperwork, because instead of running homicide his new home was a closet in archives and he'd already been told he was lucky to still have that. He'd dealt with weeks of knowing Sherlock had thrown himself off a building and being terrified that John had followed him right over the ledge, and knowing it had all started because Greg hadn't trusted him.

So it turned out there was a piece of him that was _really bloody angry,_ and Mycroft had ended up being the target.

No. He did not want to get _coffee._

"Incidentally," Mycroft spoke up, two streets and a light away from NSY. His leg flexed again in the corner of Greg's eye, and he remained determined that was _all_ of him that he would see. "While this is, first and foremost, a ride home-- it is also a job offer."

Greg tightened his jaw. He glared on out the tinted window, watching the city as it came to life. Most of the people outside were clearly on their way to work. Only a few were obviously poor shmucks like him, on their way home.

"It would be similar to your previous position," Mycroft went on, when the beat of silence stretched on, and on a little more, and on just a tad too long for his patience to tolerate. He cleared his throat, holding a file out to him. "Slightly more international, and much more sensitive. But we have translators on staff, and you're quite qualified for a security clearance. I'm confident that you would make for a very good fit, and--"

"Nope."

"You haven't even heard a salary figure yet." Mycroft smiled, undeterred, and shook the file at him a little again. "You would be compensated--"

"Sorry, again, nope. Not interested."

Mycroft sighed. Carefully, almost delicately, he deposited the file into Greg's lap, apparently accepting that he was not going to take it of his own free will.

They circled through another light. Mycroft had definitely told the driver to take the scenic route.

"Gregory," Mycroft said. He sounded incredibly tired, and Greg caught the slightest glimpse of him rubbing his face, leaning back into his seat as if the will to remain upright and straight just wasn't there. "We won't be able to go public with the truth about my brother for some time. Until then, for all intents and purposes, Sherlock is a murderer that escaped justice and handed NSY its biggest scandal in three decades, and you are the detective inspector that allowed him the access to do it. If you decide the work isn't for you, that's quite fine, your old position will be waiting for you. But for now this is the best I can--"

"Nothing is _the best you can do._ If you could somehow pull all this off, I'm pretty sure the sky's not even the limit with you, it's just an inconvenience. You're--" Greg swore under his breath, and fine, _fine;_ for the first time he at last nudged himself around to look Mycroft in the eye. "You're not hearing me. After all this? I'd _rather_ what I have now than whatever the hell it is you do. At least I know I can trust the man next to me... even if I know they think I'm an idiot."

Mycroft didn't respond to the pointed jab, as collected as ever. Cool as a bloody a cucumber. He just sat there and looked at him, like it was normal for a once in a lifetime dream job opportunity to be turned down flat. If this was how he normally offered it to people, maybe it was.

Greg chewed on his own words, fidgeting with his seatbelt to twist it back and forth, just for something to occupy his hands. He wanted a bloody cigarette. "Is that how I even made DI at all? _You?_ " he snapped, thudding his head back against the seat. "You wanted someone who'd keep Sherlock occupied and I was the only one who'd give him the time of day?"

"What?" For a rare moment, Mycroft actually looked surprised, his confident veneer discarded under a brief, pale blink. "No. You were promoted because your clear rate was so high. Courtesy of my brother, but-- I had nothing to do with it."

Greg waited.

The politician sighed, and this time, he was the one to break their gaze. He frowned out the window, working at the knot of his tie with one hand, and for a moment, he looked like the one coming off the third shift, not Greg. "I would've intervened if necessary. Working with Scotland Yard was Sherlock's motivation in staying clean for a very long time, as you know. But there were many very opportunistic sergeants who'd have been glad for the chance. I'd likely still have chosen you, because you were kind to Sherlock."

...oh.

An uncomfortable silence settled in the car. Mycroft sniffed and looked away, plainly uncomfortable-- likely too much sentiment for him to take-- and Greg was left to watch as he folded his hands in his lap, blank gaze settled out his window. The file in his lap suddenly weighed heavily, and he wanted even more than before not to open it.

"...Yeah. Yeah, well." He coughed, suddenly needing to clear his throat. "He's a bit of a bastard, yeah. But he's a good man."

Mycroft glanced at him again, his eyes unreadable, but said nothing. The firm declaration stood.

For all his faults, Mycroft had always only been trying to protect Sherlock. Often at Greg or somebody else's expense, but his intentions had always been good, at least, and... if anything else, Greg was at least familiar with the principle of triage. He hated it, but he understood why his career and John's state of mind hadn't exactly been the Holmes brothers' top priority.

He still just also wasn't quite okay with it enough for secretive car rides, a cushy job offer, and... _coffee._

Speaking of.

"Mycroft?" Greg waited for the politician to look back at him, calmly speculative, to ask, "Why did you ask me for coffee, the other day?" He waited a moment, seatbelt digging into his neck, but Mycroft kept silent. "What was it, how does Sherlock put it, an experiment in emulating normal social interaction? Did you just want to show off that you know my favorite coffee place?"

"Of course not. I told you, Anthea suggested it."

"The coffee, not the--" The what? The invitation for a chat? A _date?_ "Bloody hell, Mycroft, my divorce isn't even finalised!"

"Do you have any interest in reconciling with your soon to be ex-wife?"

 _"No,"_ Greg snapped. She'd moved in with the PE teacher after all. And seemed to be taking a particular pleasure that the junkie who'd put such a strain on their marriage had turned out to be a fraud after all. "That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?"

"That--" He rubbed his eyes, head leaned against the window. There was something profoundly disorienting and exhausting about sitting there in the obstinately early morning light, yet feeling down to his very bones the exhaustion that only set in after a full day's work. "That I have no idea what it is you want. But right now, I'm really not keen on being used for whatever experiment or publicity stunt or... or bloody mission, or... _whatever it is_ that you want me to do. Just tell me what you want, and I'll consider it. Don't jerk me around."

Mycroft just looked at him, suddenly pale and tired, in the low light of the car. He reminded him of how he'd looked at the funeral, just a bit, and-- Greg really wasn't sure how he felt about that.

John had told him that Sherlock had had a rough time of it, and that Mycroft probably had, too. It was easy, to think Mycroft's grieving act at the funeral and the weeks surrounding it had been just that, an act. And some of it certainly had been, but... John was right, too.

It may have been Sherlock and Mycroft's plan, but they hadn't been happy with how things had turned out, either.

"You misunderstand my intention," Mycroft said finally, his voice quiet. He slid his phone out of his jacket pocket, attention diverted from Greg to ordering about the British government, or at least to looking anywhere but at him. "It was a suggestion of Sherlock's, if you truly must know. No offense was intended, but if any was felt, I certainly apologise. I will be sure to let my--" His phone vibrated in his hand, the screen lighting up, and Mycroft glanced back down to read the message. "...brother know..."

"...What is it?" Greg leaned, trying to see the message, but from here all he could see was the glow of the screen. "Nuclear war in Tunisia?"

Mycroft stared at his phone with wide eyes, clearly takenaback. It took him a moment to cough and clear his throat, and then he squinted at the device, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Not quite," he said. "Sherlock and John appear to have started a wildfire."

_"What?"_

"Sherlock set the fire, and John then put it out before it could spread. The Australian cell is all recovering in hospital from smoke inhalation, where they are under arrest, and awaiting trial for setting the fire themselves." He blinked again, tilting his phone and head simultaneously, making a face akin to eating a raw egg. "As well as... well. I think you'd best check your phone to see for yourself, Gregory."

Sure enough, once again, Greg had an email waiting for him. Right on time, once again from John Watson, and once again, with a picture attached. Oh, hell. _Here we go..._

_Hi Greg,_

_Another postcard, this time from Australia. Hope you're well!_

_Things are going pretty positively for us. I tried to teach Sherlock about fire safety, but I think all I actually accomplished was making him more a fire hazard than before. Just because I can magically put out fires does not mean I actually want his plans to start entailing "start a wildfire", you know?_

_It's a great country, though, even if Sherlock has burned like a lobster while we're here. I'd highly recommend it if you're ever looking to get out of London for a few days. I'm sure things are pretty rough there right now, for you. Maybe Mycroft could foot the bill for a good hotel? :)_

_Stay safe,_

_John_

_PS: did you know that Sherlock doesn't know how to swim?_

_PPS: the transfiguration is temporary, I promise. But you might want to save the picture for blackmail purposes, all the same._

Greg blinked at his phone.

He blinked at Mycroft, and the aghast look on his face.

He blinked at his phone again.

The attached picture looked like something lifted right out of a shitty movie. It was at a coastline, somewhere, a bloody private beach of a vacation spot secluded by high cliffs and palm trees, like an actual idyllic postcard. But instead of relaxing tourists, or happy families, or local wildlife, instead, the picture showcased mermaids.

Actual, honest-to-god, mermaids.

A whole group of them, gathered about in the shallow water. Men and women, with long wet hair and wearing seashells and even bearing a trident or two, fins spread along the backs of their arms and _bloody fish tails_ sparkling in the sun. _Bloody buggering fish tails._ A whole group of fish-people just lounging in the water, looking as relaxed and amused as could be, moseying about with human torsos and _FISH TAILS_ flicking in and out of the water.

John was there, too. The only human in the shot, and cross-legged on the pale sands, one hand reached out to play with the nearest mermaid. He, too, looked about as pleased as punch.

It took Greg a few more moments from there, a few stunned, absolutely shocked moments, to realise what it was that he was actually seeing.

The mermaid John was playing with was a little smaller than the others. He was the only one not in the water, too, flat on his stomach on the sands instead and squirming about like a-- well, like a fish on dry land. He actually looked a bit ridiculous, and John clearly thought so, too, holding something up out of the poor thing's reach and teasing him like he might a cat. A great, big, sulky... cat...

Greg blinked, and the pieces clicked.

The mermaid was _Sherlock._

The soaked, wavy hair, the long line of his obviously sunburned back and the utterly graceless, squirming flop he made on the sand while all the other mermaids lounged about, lily-pale and elegant and flawless. John was clearly having the time of his life holding what looked like Sherlock's phone hostage up in the air, while a very put out Sherlock kept on squirming on his stomach and trying to sit up while failing magnificently every time. Because instead of a pair of human legs, he had a long, gleaming, black fish tail.

Greg stared at John, and mermaid Sherlock, and only distnatly realised his mouth had fallen open. When he finally managed to wrench his stare back up at Mycroft, it looked like a bomb had gone off inside his genius head.

Greg dropped his head back against the seat, closed his eyes, and _laughed._

"...well," Mycroft coughed, his phone slid away with a rustle. He sounded about as aghast as he'd looked. "That was certainly-- it. ...It was... _unexpected."_

 _"Unexpected,"_ Greg snorted. He was still breathless and dizzy and light, and for the first time since Sherlock had stepped off a rooftop he found himself smiling and he couldn't stop. "Yeah. This is the best day of my life. And the worst, but let's look at the positives."

Mycroft made another sound in his throat, agreeing and still stunned all at once, still recovering from the existential crisis of seeing his bloody brother _as a mermaid._ Greg, for his part, just stayed slumped in his seat and laughing up at the ceiling. He had given up on sanity a whole long while ago.

After another red light, he glanced carefully across at Mycroft. Who still sat there, looking a bit pale, the file of a job offer settled back in his hands and his unreadable gaze fixated calmly out the window, utterly calm and unbothered if not for the slightly loosened knot of his tie.

He again frowned down at the email in his hands. This time, not at Sherlock's lower half, but at how John sat back on the beach, more at ease than he had ever known him to be, and the look on Sherlock's face. Annoyed, yes, put upon and teased and frustrated, but... also utterly delighted. More content than he could've ever believed Sherlock Holmes to look.

Greg closed his eyes again, and let his phone slide back into his pocket.

"You know," he said. "I wouldn't say no to swinging through a Starbucks drive through."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> Next time: Sherlock continues to be an absolute menace, and Mycroft continues to wear down our favorite silver fox :)
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the comments/kudos, and I apologise for the wait!!! I'm a bit sucked into my draft for my other WIP at the moment. Chapter 4 of this is already written, as is half of chapter 5, and I know what happens in the rest of it, it's just getting it down on paper! For now, let's send these two on a pseudo-date, while Sherlock continues to establish himself as the world's worst fire hazard :D

Every day on after the turned down job offer, Greg got a coffee delivery while at work.

It was always the same order, his favorite order, two shots of espresso and an extra hit of whipped cream. Greg had never told anyone this was his favorite order, and he didn't actually get it all that often, either, but that was the delivery, every single night. Sometimes with a scone or a biscuit along with it, and other times, just the coffee.

Who made deliveries of hot coffee at one in the morning? What silent delivery boy somehow slid past Scotland Yard's security night after night to find his way down to the restricted archives all to leave just a single cup of coffee?

Well, that was the million dollar question, and Greg was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

He took the coffee.

It was too much caffeine, too expensive, too... too _everything._ It was too _Mycroft._ But Greg was tired, and lonely, and his fingertips were scarred with a dozen papercuts, and Mycroft wasn't there with him in his closet in archives, watching him drink or not drink. He drank the coffee.

He was too tired to stay angry.

Sometimes, the midnight coffees and occasional scones came with something else, too. The first time, it was five days after the job offer, and an embossed bloody index card of the finest stationery tucked flush against the coffee:

_The Ritz, 8pm, tomorrow_

_Not to worry. Your supervisor knows you'll be late_

Greg spent his lunch break googling _The Ritz,_ and found himself looking at pictures of a five star restaurant that cost more a night than he spent on furniture.

He binned the note, and the next night, very pointedly got to work half an hour early. He walked right past the raised eyebrows of his supervisor, kicked his feet up on his desk, and immediately submerged himself facefirst into a cup of lukewarm, bitter, police precinct coffee.

The week after that, it was a chocolate scone astride two West End play tickets. These, scheduled for two days from now, on his night off, and once again unsigned. The play was one that even Greg had noticed in the headlines as one that had been sold out for weeks.

This time, Greg very pointedly called for the worst takeaway he could find half an hour before the show was to start, and paid the delivery boy standing on the kerb outside his building, wearing pajamas, slippers, and an ancient dressing gown. He did not look once to the long black car, waiting across the street.

The following Monday, it was a blueberry muffin, and the receipt for a first class plane ticket to Paris.

"For god's sake," he muttered, and this time, he binned the muffin along with the ticket.

Greg worked his phone out, obstinately typed, letter by letter, _What the hell?,_ and clicked send before he could overthink it.

* * *

Three days after the the thrown out plane tickets, the offer was a coffee, a plain scone, and a tucked in note card slid in between his cup and the paper logo for _Prufrock's._ Greg rolled his eyes at the sheer sight of it, already preparing himself for what the hell, what the _hell_ was it going to be this time; another plane ticket? A night at the opera in Germany? Dinner with the Queen?

But when he worked the note free, it wasn't to find something he could have ever predicted.

_Apologies: this was the best I was able to manage._

_Let me know if further assistance is required._

Greg frowned.

What?

He traced the neat letters and fancy stationery again, the paper thick underneath his hands. What on earth was Mycroft talking about? Further assistance? What was _this?_

For a moment, he considered running after the delivery boy, catching him before he made it to the lift to try and pull an answer out of him. But he discarded the idea just as quickly. It was late, and Greg was tired, and more confused than not-- whatever Mycroft had done now, he wasn't really in the mood to go off high-tailing someone down the corridor to try and drag out an explanation that the poor kid probably didn't even have.

Whatever it was, he was sure to find out eventually. When Mycroft Holmes did something, it was never exactly subtle.

Later that night, a half-eaten scone on his desk and coffee still in hand, his supervisor stopped by. It was normal, with the revolving door of files in and out of the department; he tended to get a delivery of more files for him to sort once or twice a night. He waved the walking stack of paperwork in with an absentminded waggle of his fingers, already knee-deep in his stack of work for the night, with increasingly papercut fingers and very, very bored. Was this how Sherlock felt, without a case? _God,_ he was _bored._

"Another bunch of homicides that need filing, Inspector," his supervisor said, his voice muffled behind the stack. He settled them all down on his desk with a solid _thump._ "It'll take someone a week for these ones."

"All in a night's work." He didn't quite look at the stack, trying not to see the build up of monotony, tedium, and a mind-numbing waste of time towering on up to the ceiling, waiting for him and only him on his desk. "I'll get on it when I finish... wait. Someone?"

"Yeah. Didn't you hear?"

"Hear what?"

His supervisor nodded again, the words headed off by one very tired, very big yawn from the doorway. "Yeah-- _Inspector._ Got paperwork down from on high; you're being reassigned. Don't know how you pulled it off, I'm telling you that. After the stunt you pulled, I'd have thought traffic and drunk tank duty was your new ceiling, but..." He shrugged around another sip of his own lukewarm coffee. "Tonight's your last night down here, Graham. Good luck."

Greg was left standing in the middle of the archives, his arms full, his mind blank, and his jaw dropped. He was too utterly flummoxed to even remember to work out an irritated _It's GREG_ until the man was already gone, and the door swung shut behind him.

* * *

It wasn't his old position.

Once upon a time, Greg's title had been one of the more coveted in the department. One of the senior leads in homicide, a first call for a high priority or VIP case, with many of the most promising junior officers that Scotland Yard had helping to make his team what it was. It had been as close to a dream job as he could've ever had, and maybe he'd made it a little bit off Sherlock's back, but he'd never felt guilty for it. Sherlock had maintained, very vehemently, that he didn't want credit, he didn't want a consultant's fee, he didn't want any of it. All he wanted from Greg was the Work.

His new position was a supervisory office down in cold cases. Donovan had been reassigned... which was really for the best, because Greg wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to work with her again. Certainly not before the truth of Sherlock's suicide had come to light. Anderson had lost his job all together, after being caught one too many times digging through the forensics from Sherlock's suicide, violating evidentiary procedure, in direct defiance of his superior's orders to stay out of it. He was convinced Sherlock had faked his death, because he couldn't bear the thought that he'd played such a role in such a horrible death.

Besides, it was cold cases. Nobody _wanted_ to work in cold cases. Without Sherlock, Greg didn't want to even imagine what his closure rate was going to be.

It was still a D.I. position. Day shift again, and with junior officers to look after, and crimes to solve. It wasn't paperwork. It was _something._

Greg sat at his soon to be former desk, surrounded by a sea of dusty files, a dozen binned coffee cups, and the numb weight of responsibility solidifying in his hands.

He slid his phone back out, and started typing.

* * *

He didn't meet Mycroft for dinner at a five star restaurant, wriggled into his most expensive suit, and ordering an oyster appetiser whose name he couldn't pronounce while they rushed through drinks to make an 8 PM play.

Instead, he squinted for him inside his favorite cafe at half past six, his old shirt caked with dust and cobwebs from digging through the cold case archives and a styrofoam cup in hand. When he found Mycroft, it was behold a man that was as out of place as could be, a three piece suit and pocket chain sitting in the corner of a busy, college student cafe, leather briefcase in his lap. He looked as uncomfortable as humanly possible.

Greg raised a hand, and grinned.

"Guarding your stuff from the plebeian masses?" Greg prodded, nodding to how he held his briefcase. It was transparent and definitely amusing. "Come on, no one's going to try to steal it. Just because your coffee didn't cost fifty quid doesn't mean we're animals."

"I'd rather be safe than sorry." He smiled, a bit strained, but it did at least look genuine, and he moved a bit to allow Greg ample room to sit down himself. "Is this business or pleasure?"

"Well. I don't know. How's about you tell me, hmm?" He spread his arms, putting himself on display as best he could, old suit and coffee stains and sleepless nights and all. "Make a deduction!"

If possible, Mycroft looked even more wrong-footed than before. It was almost endearing, to have one of the most powerful men in Britain looking at him like a child who'd been called on in class but didn't know the answer.

"It's hardly my area of expertise," he began after a long moment, hiding his mouth behind a sip of something very fancy, very sugary, and very expensive. He glanced away for a moment, frowning. "All I did was follow Anthea's advice."

The woman with more names than shoes, and had kidnapped Greg off the street more times than he could count. Oh, good lord. "Which was?"

"To allow you to make the first move, so to speak. She insisted to me that it held the highest probability for success, and... while I admit it is not quite what I was picturing..."

He trailed off for a moment, his gaze sweeping the busy cafe and Greg up and down together all at once. Not what he had been picturing, no, evidently not. It was certainly not something that Greg had ever been picturing, either.

"It's a thank you," Greg said finally. To take pity on him, just a little, and also take the safe, middle road for himself. It wasn't quite business, and it wasn't quite pleasure, either. The best he could do, right now, was a peace offering. "For the job. I know it was you, Mycroft."

Mycroft cleared his throat, his cup set very precisely down on the square of a napkin. "Obviously." He continued to arrange his napkin very precisely, angled so neatly it was almost obsessive, his eyes on it rather than Greg. "And how is being a public servant going, then?"

"It's... good." It'd been one day on the job, and he'd already fielded three very pointed comments along the lines of _never thought to see you out of the basement again._ "Can't complain, I suppose."

"It's quite apparent that you're bored senseless, Gregory. It's also a tragic waste of your talents."

Greg sighed, sinking back into his seat. "I said I can't complain, and I meant it. I know you said you couldn't get me my old position back until... well, this is okay for now, Mycroft." And it was. It was going to be boring work, and most of his new team only knew him as the sucker that had been taken in by the Fraud and the Freak, and he wasn't going to actually be able to _help people,_ which was the whole reason he'd become a cop in the first place. But he still found himself honestly okay with this. He knew Mycroft had tried, and he knew this wasn't exactly what Sherlock had wanted. He could bear with it, until this was all over.

"Who knows?" he prodded, because honestly, Mycroft looked just a bit forlorn, now, and Greg felt like the poor guy could use a bit of cheering up. "I bet Sherlock will have the time of his life with all the new cold cases when he gets back."

"Not _quite_ so loud, please. We are still at least pretending to operate under some pretense of secrecy, after all?"

Greg smirked to himself. Yeah, total and complete secrecy, all right. This was why he was meeting the British Government itself in a very public cafe, for a conversation about illicit job offerings and dead men walking and _magic._

Mycroft continued to look-- uncomfortable. That was the best way to put it. It was clear this wasn't the sort of place he'd normally be caught dead in, and he continued to stick out like a sore thumb. He didn't seem to be able to quite keep his attention singularly focused on Greg, either. His gaze kept shifting off him to the other patrons, inscrutable but piercing in a way that had always reminded him of Sherlock; how _much_ he could see in just one look. And Sherlock had always said that Mycroft was even smarter than him, hadn't he? Albeit with much huffing and puffing.

Smart enough to arrange this entire Lazarus plan, and powerful enough to earn Greg a bloody promotion when anybody else would've been fired... and utterly and completely at a loss when asked for coffee.

Maybe next time, tea at the Diogenes would be all right.

Mycroft cleared his throat, wrenching his gaze off the young, quietly bickering couple nearby and back to Greg instead with a palpable effort. "On that note, actually," he said, and began to slip his phone out. "We have another update that I think you might be interested in."

"Oh, really?" Greg glanced around the bustling cafe with a raised eyebrow. "What happened to secrecy, then? You so sure we should be looking at this where people can see?"

"People believe what they see, and see only what they can believe. Unless confronted with the impossible very directly, they will rationalise it until it is only the improbable. You, yourself, are a prime example." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, his face settling back into another very slight smile. "Surely you don't still think John was actually able to find Sherlock that case with the butcher because he could _smell his coat."_

Greg blinked, his hands gone still and his brain momentarily frozen along with it. The butcher case. Sherlock running off on his own, because that was what Sherlock did, and John... John somehow knowing exactly where to turn down every single corridor of the old office building. Because... because he'd said he could... _smell Sherlock's bloody coat..._

 _"Jesus,"_ he moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "No. No, thank you!"

"But--"

"I said nope!" And he _meant it,_ what the hell. "Jesus, never going to be able to trust John again, I swear..."

The email was easy enough to find, this time from whom he could only assume to be Sherlock, with a fake email address and no helpful signature but the attitude of it oozing out with every word. Greg rolled his eyes again, and settled himself in for the newest catastrophe.

_John's phone has been confiscated, and I hereby request sanctions to be levied against Romania. They permitted a species of poisonous magical insect to hibernate here, one of whom thusly bite John. This is surely a violation of international law and I expect you to deal with it immediately and without mercy._

_Currently, we are side-lined, until I have finished preparing the antidote. It requires, among other things, pixie dust, two drops of blood from a vampire, and shavings of a dragon's claw. John insists that Romania is an ideal location to lay low and properly collect said ingredients. We're staying at a dragon closure, and I have a new, new best friend. His name is Mihai, he is a Romanian Longhorn, and John says he loves us. Be jealous of me._

_Can I take him home with my sphinx? Make yourself useful and go write a law to that effect. No, I don't think you understand: I am quite serious, brother. I want a dragon. I will have a dragon._

_Oh, and we took care of the Romanian network, you're welcome. It was so easy even you could've done the legwork this time. Paperwork's headed your way, blah blah._

_We're here another two days at the least. The potion needs to be stirred for "five moons." (What kind of non-scientific measure is that? What does the moon have to do with it? John refuses to explain, I suspect because he doesn't know; stay tuned for updates, more to follow. Absolutely absurd!) But then we will be back on the move shortly, so enjoy your peace while it lasts. Mihai, John, and I will return as soon as we can._

_The potion demands my attention. Also, John requires me to send our regards to you and Gavin, well wishes, assurances for you to be safe, etc. Why am I speaking to you and Gavin in the same message? Does he know something I don't?_

_I'm learning how to cast hexes and curses, brother. Don't test me._

The picture, this time, was of a very assuredly human Sherlock, with two loose, very human legs, and two long, very human arms. In Romania, apparently, settled at a desk with a steaming pot or bowl or... or a bloody witch's cauldronin front of him. He looked about as pleased as could be, with his hair frizzed up from steam and soot smudged on his face and ash all over his shirt, and--

And cuddling a dragon.

In his lap, wrapped up happily in Sherlock's arms, was a _sodding baby dragon._ Two flaring wings that battled for space while he scratched at his neck with sharp claws, its serpentine head butted into Sherlock's hand. As Greg watched, it flicked its ears, its long, pointed ears, sharp teeth spreading into something that just might've been a smile.

Then, snorted a cloud of smoke right into the camera.

John sat next to Sherlock, his left arm supported in a sling, and Greg wasn't quite sure, but he was _almost_ positive that his hand wasn't supposed to be multiple colors. He was _also_ almost positive that the look on his face was one of sheer horror, as he stared at Sherlock, _cuddling a baby dragon,_ and seemed to experience his life flashing before his eyes.

"My _god."_

Mycroft smiled across from him, looking just about as pleased as Sherlock. Which was... well, that was alarming. "It's all right," he said, accepting his phone back. "For what it's worth, I believe this is actually a wyvern-- but I digress. I'll admit, magical pet control is not exactly my purview, but I have been assured that there are laws about this sort of thing. He can't take his new _friend_ home."

"Oh, yeah, because that's stopped him before. My god, Mycroft, an actual-- your brother is a bloody fire hazard and I am never stepping foot in Baker Street again!" A dragon. A _dragon._ What had John been thinking? Sherlock Holmes, and a _dragon!_

Greg stopped short, then, turning over the words again in his head. _Wait a moment... oh, no._ "Jesus, Baker Street. Does Mrs. Hudson know? Does she know about all of this?" He started to stand up, his own amusement freezing straight into a solid chunk of guilt. "Someone has to tell her, Mycroft, we can't just leave that poor woman in the dark--"

"She knows, Gregory. Not to worry; John has been keeping her updated as well... she actually knows a bit more than I'd have thought." He smiled again, the rest of his tea finished off with one long, quiet sip. "You know that sister she's always out of town to visit? Yes, well-- picture her with a magic wand, and a pointy witch's hat."

Greg gaped, gagged, and just about choked, straight into his tea.

All right.

Suddenly, Mycroft, and future tea at the Diogenes Club, didn't sound all that bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> Mrs. Hudson's convenient-plot-device sister is Professor McGonagall ;)
> 
> Next time, let's send these two idiots on an Actual date :D
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!!
> 
> After much support, suggestion, and necessary nagging from my friends, I have finally finished my document for this fic. I've learned my lesson: I might be able to write 70k of angst on demand, but I can't do the same with 10k of fluff ;u;
> 
> But it's okay. The rough draft is now COMPLETE, so unless I reread what I have for what comes and am just disgusted, there should be no more long waits. Hopefully, fast updates to follow!

A new normal settled into place, in London at large, Scotland Yard, and Greg's life.

Sherlock faded completely from the news, and as Greg began to make a home and prove himself in cold cases, the sidelong glances and mutters stopped at work. He may not have been Sherlock, but he was a good officer, and his team learned it as he came in and did good work, each and every day. Very occasionally, he'd take a glance at international headlines and see mention of an explosion in Colombia, or an unexpected earthquake in India, or a terrorist network discovered in China, and he'd wonder if he had an inkling on what was going to be covered in John's next update.

But, Greg found himself happier when he just opted to a return to his modus operandi back when Sherlock had still been in London: _what happens on Baker Street, stays on Baker Street._ Sherlock was astounding, and a magical Sherlock was ten times more so, and John right along with him. He was really better off not trying to hypothesise what those two were up to. He was never going to be able to guess, and he was happier when not worrying about it. That was Mycroft's job.

And speaking of Mycroft--

Somehow, that man had turned into the only sensible constant left that he had.

He was cracking mad, of course, but it was a dependable, sensible sort of mad, of texts timed so perfectly it was creepy and convenient deliveries of his favorite coffee. Whatever Mycroft was up to, he could be confident that it was surveilling the city and running the government, not taking a magical tour with dragons and unicorns. He'd never have thought he'd say it, but-- Mycroft was the perfect amount of excitement for him to like it. He could even do with the creepy factor of knowing he was being watched on his way home, because, in some very weird, twisted sort of way, he knew it was Mycroft trying to protect him. And after recent events, he supposed Mycroft was justified in feeling a bit paranoid. Protective, over his brother, and his staff, and... whatever Greg was to him.

His divorce went through, and he signed the final papers with relish. By virtue of a miracle paperwork snafu, his old salary, as a rat in the archives instead of his new position, as a proper, reinstated DI, was used in the calculations, and his ex-wife's claims to his pension and any sort of alimony went up in smoke. His solicitor assured him simultaneously it was legitimate and that Greg was the luckiest client he'd ever had, and that afternoon, he got an unsigned delivery of enough coffee and fresh scones for his entire team.

Bloody interfering godsend, that man was.

He planned a quiet night in as a reward, with rugby on the telly, and all his work defiantly left at the office. Maybe he'd actually crack open the Firewhisky John had sent him, because he'd never quite gotten around to it, wanting to save it for something special, and... all right, he was a bit scared of it. _Don't drink around anything flammable_ had not exactly been the warning label to inspire confidence.

He had also, in the meantime, gotten another small collection of gifts from his magical vacationing friends: among other things, a set of ice lollies that John swore would never melt, a batch of lime green biscuits that Sherlock espoused made him feel better than cocaine while John promised they were perfectly safe, and a watch that bit his little finger whenever he'd forgotten an appointment.

His new flat was starting to look like a magical knickknacks emporium, and at this rate he was pretty sure Sherlock and John were simply collecting a massive assortment of junk in their travels abroad, and just sending out as gifts whatever they didn't want for themselves. Mrs. Hudson was probably stocked in magical baked goods for the next decade.

(The lime green biscuits were buried at the bottom of his closet. He was genuinely terrified of them.)

Greg had just settled himself down on his sofa, a slice of pizza in one hand and what most likely amounted to an edible molotov cocktail in the other, when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

_Hey Greg,_

_Hope you're well. We're closer to you than you might think, but I'm afraid I'm not allowed to disclose the location this time. Wizards have secrets, too._

_We're actually taking a short break at the moment. A vacation during a vacation, I guess. We had a bit of a rough time of it, on our last stop, and Sherlock's a little shaken up. There are things out there that even wizards have trouble with, and we ran into one when Sherlock didn't listen to me telling him to stay put. I think he will listen, in the future._

_Like I said, we're someplace safe now, and we're both fine, just taking it easy for a few days. I'm showing Sherlock how to harvest fairy eggs and feeding him up with chocolate, so I expect he'll feel better soon. I'm sending you some as well. It should be getting to you about now. Wizard chocolate is just as bad for your blood pressure as what's in the vending machine at the Yard, I'm afraid, but I can guarantee this will make you smile. Split some with Mycroft, if you're feeling lonely. I'm sure he could use the company._

_Things are going quickly, excluding this hiccup. And, I know it's looked mostly like a fun vacation, but I think we're both actually starting to miss home. Sherlock doesn't admit it, of course, but he loves London, and he's also missing what and who he had to leave behind. This last incident has made him very determined to wrap things up as fast as we can, so, this time I think I really mean it when I say: hopefully, we truly will see you soon._

_Well, I'd better get back to it (his nibs is glaring at me). Sorry for the downer of an update. But we're okay, and we'll be headed back home as soon as we can. We miss you._

_John_

_PS: did you know Sherlock loves bees? Get him a bee stuffed animal for next Christmas. He'll bite your head off and then turn right around and sleep with it, I promise._

Greg blinked once. He jabbed the mute button on autopilot to direct his full attention to his phone, the earlier amusement (and faint trepidation) set off by an update from John cooled now, and completely gone. Genuine worry had moved into its place instead, and he bit his lip. He scrolled back up to skim the email again, and this time, the concerning phrases jumping out to him one by one to stick on his skin.

_Short break... rough time... shaken up._

Sherlock. _Sherlock._ Shaken up.

He didn't quite want to imagine about how bad something had to be, for _Sherlock and John_ to be _shaken up._

Frowning again, Greg thumbed down to see the rest of the email.

The attachment, this time, was not alarming, or impossible, or terrifying. This time, it was simply a pleasant clearing, bright sunlight and trees and a warm breeze that could've been just about anywhere. This time, instead of playing with a terrifying magical creature or even transformed into one himself, Sherlock was simply sitting cross-legged under the thickest tree, and with John just the same next to him. It was possibly the most peaceful Greg had ever seen either one of them in all the years that he had known them.

The moving picture showed Sherlock gently tugging his leg up to his chest, tucking his chin against his knee. He looked very out of place, and very, very tired, his face now cushioned against a scarf that wasn't one of his own, and wearing a very stretched out jumper that Greg was almost positive was one of John's. He looked even paler than normal, and kept tugging on his scarf like he was cold, but his attention was fixated on the flutter of the lights around them. A few peaceful bees, Greg thought, explaining John's note, but there were even more bright little balls of glowing light drifting all about them, which could only have been the aforementioned fairies. John had one of the glowing things in the palm of his hand, and was showing it to Sherlock like a teacher would to a student.

The look on Sherlock's haggard face was enraptured. And he was definitely looking closer at John than he was the light in his hand.

Greg sagged back into his sofa, his head dropped back against the pillow and the Firewhisky now cradled in the crook of one arm. Suddenly, his vision of an ideal night of watching a sports game, eating cooling takeaway, and drinking alone in a dark flat didn't sound so ideal after all.

He tossed his phone from one hand to the other, his lip sucked between his teeth, and stared at the glow of the telly.

Oh, fuck it.

* * *

_To: The British Government_

_Two questions_

_1\. Do you drink?_

_2\. You got a pool?_

* * *

And instead of eating pizza alone in his dark flat in the dark the night of his divorce, Greg Lestrade found himself celebrating by sitting astride a private pool in one of the fanciest houses in London, his shoes and socks behind him and his trousers rolled up to his knees, and toasting the night with a glass of whiskey.

"You're sure this is safe? We're definitely not going to burn down your house? ...or each other?"

Mycroft eyed his own glass, tilting it up to the light. It certainly looked just like a normal whiskey, golden-brown and spilling against two clinking ice cubes. That did not change the fact that even Mycroft was holding it like he would a bomb. "I'm sure John would not want to burn your flat down, at the very least."

"That's... not exactly an answer."

"Yes, well." Mycroft offered his glass to Greg instead, smiling in that very slight way of his, unbearably sure of himself once again. "We all need a bit of an excitement, every now and then. Cheers?"

Well, they _were_ right beside a pool...

"Cheers," Greg agreed, and, with no small amount of trepidation, clinked his glass against Mycroft's, and tossed back the first swallow.

"Oh. _Oh._ This is..."

Mycroft tried a second sip for himself, swishing the contents of his glass back and forth. He made a face through another exploratory mouthful and shuddered, the light gleaming off the pool and the whiskey in a white, flickering glow. "It's quite--"

"Normal," Greg finished, and swallowed himself. It tasted just like a good, strong whiskey was meant to, ice-cold in his mouth, a refreshing burn in his throat, and a tingling warmth in his stomach that spread almost immediately. The label read _Ogden's Old Firewhisky,_ showed a leprechaun that Greg was _positive_ started moving whenever he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, and it tasted exactly like he'd expect a normal whiskey ought to.

"It's a bit of a let down, to be honest with you," he said, tasting another sip. "I thought we'd be breathing fire or something, that's what John implied, but this is just regular whiskey."

"Oh, the night's still young, Gregory. But even if not..." Mycroft clinked his drink against the bottle between them, and again raised it in a mock toast to the pool. "At least it is a very good bottle."

That, Greg could agree on. He couldn't tell if it was the magic, or John had gone all out, but it tasted more expensive than anything he'd ever have considered buying for himself. _A very good divorce celebration,_ he thought, and set about pouring himself and Mycroft another glass.

"Well, as long as we're not breathing fire, I suppose. You want to relocate?" He kicked his feet in the water, the white glow of the pool's reflection patterned along his hand and the glass. "Something about don't mix alcohol and trying to swim..."

"I think neither of us are about to try for a midnight swim. Though you're right, we probably ought to move, at least before we drink more of this, but..." Mycroft gave a long, disparaging sigh, leaning back on the heels of his hands. "I think neither of us old men want to stand up right now, either."

"Yeah. Not the best showing on a first date, is it?"

There. Out in the open. _First date._ He hadn't intended on saying it-- he hadn't even been so sure that was what this was. Even up to when he'd knocked on the door with a bottle of whiskey and wearing his best jacket. Even Mycroft hadn't been sure; he could see that in the momentary flicker of his eyes, landing on him in unmistakeable surprise before very quickly sliding to his drink again. But Greg felt warm and light, the whiskey already hitting exactly right, and he'd suddenly felt encouraged to just be a bit bloody bold. Enough was enough.

Why not? Sherlock and John could be alive and so happy and domestically cute it was disgusting, wearing each others jumpers and sitting in a quiet meadow with _bees_. If they could have _that,_ Greg figured he was allowed at least a drink at the pool with the British government himself. They were all alive, nobody was being falsely arrested for murder anymore, the world wasn't on fire unless it was one that Sherlock and John had set-- why not go for it?

Mycroft let the label stand without protest, cradling his glass in long, very careful fingers. He even looked just the slightest bit pink now, embarrassed but definitely pleased, and Greg grinned back.

"So tell me, then. Why _do you_ have a pool, if you and Sherlock can't swim?"

Mycroft smiled again and shook his head. "It came with the house." He raised his glass with a long, deep breath, alternately watching Greg and the pattern of the lights in the whiskey. "I can also swim just fine, thank you. In theory, perhaps, but we did grow up near the water. It's just that, by the time he was old enough to start learning, Sherlock wouldn't go near it. He..." Mycroft trailed off, his gaze going distant. The corner of his mouth tightened. "Well, never mind that now. Best to let bygones be bygones, yes? Another top up, Gregory?"

"...Sure." He offered his glass without comment, this time holding his tongue. "Thanks."

Greg had never heard about the Holmes' brothers childhood, before. He'd never had any idea what to imagine about it, either; the only adjective he could think to describe it was _not normal._ He heard something about Sherlock's past, there, in Mycroft's sudden reluctance to explain further, but didn't want to pry for details. Tonight was about moving on from messy pasts, not dredging them back up.

"Got another update from John," he said, the whiskey warm in his stomach. "Apparently Sherlock loves bees. You heard anything from them, recently?"

"Oh, yes. Yesterday, as a matter of fact." Mycroft frowned to himself, his gaze again turning distant. "Just a brief update on their mission. Sherlock seemed like he was in a hurry-- no vacation photos this time."

Greg shrugged noncommittally, opting to keep his mouth shut. It wasn't a surprise that Sherlock had been tight-lipped about whatever this latest ordeal had been to his brother. But Greg was sure he'd be fine. He was with John, after all. Good man, John Watson.

Good wizard, apparently.

"Can I ask you something, Mycroft?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, midway through pouring himself a third half a glass. "Of course. I can't guarantee I'll be able to answer, but you are always free to ask."

 _Yeah, I'm sure you'd know the nuclear codes, if I asked..._ "A few weeks ago, when you first asked me out for coffee?" He waited for Mycroft to nod to go on, searching for the right words very carefully. "You said it was a suggestion of _Sherlock's,_ of all people? He wanted you to ask me out for coffee?"

"Oh, is that all? Yes-- well, yes and no. As I've said, the coffee was Anthea's suggestion." He leaned back on his hands again, setting his glass down with a faint _clink._ "Which I'm sure does not surprise you. My brother is hardly an expert on romantic relations."

"So it was meant to be a date, then. That was you asking me out on a date."

Mycroft paused again, his gaze slipping away from him. His smile turned strained. He stared down at his glass with tired eyes, working the knot of his tie just a little bit looser, and sighed deeply. Once again, Greg could see the gears turning behind his pale eyes, each next word picked and chosen very, very carefully.

"I abhor emotional connection and decry sentiment. It is a lesson that Sherlock learned from me, and for no trivial reason-- we are both powerful men, and attract the attentions of the equally powerful. Emotional attachment yields a liability that can be used against us. Nothing illustrates this more clearly than what has happened with Moriarty."

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Moriarty was crazy."

And if Mycroft decried connection so much, then what, exactly, was Greg doing here?

Mycroft shrugged easily, still turning his glass in his hands. "Perhaps. So? It remains a fact that my brother chose to form attachments, and establish connections, and... friendship. And you have all suffered for it. Including Sherlock himself. Before we got so incredibly lucky with John, Sherlock was about to depart an international espionage and assassination mission that would've lasted for years, and that we both estimated his chances of returning alive from at little more than twenty percent." He set his drink down again with a sudden jerk, instead wringing his hands together over his knees with a return of the worry that so often seemed to grip him about his baby brother.

Another uncomfortable pause settled between them. Greg finished off the rest of his drink, and this time, didn't refill it with any more.

So it was that easy, then? Just... switch off _emotional connection,_ and that was that? There he had it?

Well, when the stakes were as high as Moriarty had made them, maybe it was that easy. For Sherlock and Mycroft, at least. Just switch it off.

And again, that raised the question of what exactly Greg was doing here, if that was really how Mycroft felt about it.

"Before Sherlock left, I asked him about it. What he would change, if he had the ability to go back... if his sentiment had been worth it. It wasn't a challenge-- I was genuinely curious as to his answer." He licked his lips, gaze turned quietly away and his jaw tight, finger stroking the rim of his glass. "He said if he could do it all over again, then he'd have shot Jim Moriarty that night at the pool and been done with it. His only regret regarding John was the pain and danger that he had brought into his life. He stood there looking at me in this very house, Gregory, just days after he'd stepped off a rooftop, and headed out on a mission that we both knew very well might be the death of him, and he still was insistent that he had no regrets at all concerning John Watson. And he also said I owed it to myself to indulge in just the same."

Another silence fell between them. This one easier to take, just a little calmer. Mycroft continued to frown down at his empty glass, his mouth flat and his features tense, tenser than they'd been all evening. And Greg...

A big part of it might've been the whiskey. He still felt very warm, lighter than air, and very, very bold, and with half a bottle still between them there was only the promise of more to come. Perhaps it had been more magical than it had first tasted. But an even bigger part of it was the fact that Greg sat here, very recently divorced, a certified laughingstock at work, one friend legally dead and the other suspected to be so right along with him, and this was unquestionably the best night he'd had since Sherlock's suicide.

"Well!" Mycroft started, with a very forced air of cheer. He smiled back at Greg, straightening himself backup with his hands on his knees and the wrinkles tugged free from his vest. "That's enough of that nonsense, don't you think? Tell me, Gregory, can I get you--"

Greg said, "You're both idiots,", threw caution to the wind, and kissed him.

* * *

To: <restricted>

From: thisisamagicalhoneymoon@protonmail.com

Subject: [Empty]

_The Irish cell has been eliminated, though I unfortunately can not be specific as to how. John told me that he would start employing our plan in the morning, after I took him to a fantastic restaurant with a particular brand of whisky that I had promised him he would enjoy. He went to the bar on his own, then returned five minutes later with the drinks, informing me the job had been taken care of. I think he's still a bit annoyed I first tried to go at it alone._

_Regarding all other matters of relevance:_

_You know how much I loathe the very idea of you defiling Gavin. I would appreciate at least one segment of my life remaining free from your meddling influence. However, ignore me. I mean this sincerely. You always do._

_If it is something that you have a positive interest in, then it is unforgivable to the both of you for you not to try. As the past several months have so aptly demonstrated, even we are deserving of and capable of happiness._

_It is also the greatest mistake we can make to waste that chance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bad run-in Sherlock and John had was with a dementor. I'm not quite sure where, because we don't know where dementors hang out besides Azkaban and it definitely wasn't there, but let's just put it at somewhere in western Europe. Muggles can't see dementors, but they can feel their effects just the same as a wizard, and John was an auror, so he'd be able to handle a single dementor just fine. They're now hanging out at the Hogwarts beehives, which aren't mentioned in canon but exist now for this fic.
> 
> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos!!! See, I told you that I'd actually be back soon, this time!
> 
> One more to go!

The next magical package delivery came a little over three weeks after the Firewhisky date, and ranked right up there next to the mermaid picture as _Reasons Why Sherlock Holmes Will Give Me an Aneurysm Before I'm Fifty._

The delivery, this time, was simply a newspaper bound to a box of sensible looking pastries. A sensible enough package that almost could've passed for normal, if it hadn't been delivered by an owl.

The biscuits, at least, were nothing at all like the lime green ones, still buried in his closet, sure to never see the light of day. Greg popped one into his mouth as he kicked back on his sofa, turning the newspaper from hand to hand. It was obviously from John, but why? Why had John sent him a magical newspaper?

His answer came when the thing unfolded of its own accord the second Greg touched it, rippling all by itself through to the relevant page, article, headline, all framing one very damming picture.

It was black and white again, a moving snapshot of what looked like a throng of people. Of... _mostly_ people, and a few that he didn't want to look too closely at because he had a strong feeling about what he'd find. All arguing together, waving their hands, their wands; an eccentric bunch that kept setting off sparks and little clouds of smoke at every turn. And right in the center of attention, and the focal point for every argument taking place, was Sherlock and John.

Sherlock stood front stage and center, gesturing madly and clearly shouting his head off at someone. It was unmistakably Sherlock, and all the spotlights were magnetised straight onto him by virtue of the _giant bloody snake_ draped around his neck like a _sodding scarf._ Just-- an eight foot long, absolutely contented snake, that was apparently of no concern to Sherlock, John, or anybody else there. In fact, Sherlock seemed to be the more dangerous creature, still shouting and pointing and pacing furiously at anyone that crossed his path. It looked like how he'd used to argue with Anderson or Donovan, high on the confidence in his own deductions and outright affronted that no one else could see it-- he was just asking to get himself punched. Or... cursed? Hexed? Whatever it was that wizards did.

John was next to him, arguing just as hotly on one hand while holding Sherlock back on the other. He kept jabbing people back with his wand and shouting something, but whatever it was, Sherlock clearly couldn't care less, and John seemed to be a bit more occupied with keeping Sherlock and his snake in place rather than shoving anybody else away.

"Jesus _Christ,"_ Greg muttered, and settled in to read.

_Muggle Steals Show at Annual Potions Conference_

_A new face made waves today at the annual Hodgkins Potions conference in Germany today, standing up during the keynotes speech to spar off with Phineas Bourne regarding, of all things, the proper way to prepare dragon claw shavings. It sounds like a small detail, and if you're tuning out now, I agree with you-- in fact, I can't even tell you how that discussion ended at all. Of much greater interest quickly became the identity of the stranger._

_When he engaged in a seemingly impromptu speech that simultaneously managed to be more engaging than half the speakers at the conference and twice as offensive, interest started to be piqued in that nobody actually recognised him. His companion, since identified as former Auror John Watson, had no comment on the matter, while the stranger himself continued focusing on illustrating the benefits of proper ingredient preparation._

_It is still unknown exactly who this individual, who finally identified himself as Muggle Sherlock Holmes, is. It is also unknown if his self-identification as a Muggle is correct. What has been confirmed is every claim that he made in his speech, including all seven that we have been unable to source to any already existing texts or knowledge on potion-making. The only reasonable explanation proposed thus far is that this Muggle discovered them himself._

_I will print the final confrontation below without edit. Many of us struggled to believe our own ears, and I think Mr. Holmes' own words will conclude this story more accurately than any of mine possibly could:_

_Man: I'm Sherlock Holmes, and you are a third-rate scientist using this conference to cheat on your wife. With what I suspect is a sentient goat, but I will need to confer with my partner later on the sentience of magical goats._

_Spectator: Are we supposed to be impressed?_

_Man: You should be! I can't even use magic and yet I appear to be better at it than any of you. John!_

_[Mr. Watson joins 'Sherlock Holmes', taking his arm to prepare for side-along apparition. The Ashwinder around Mr. Holmes' neck hisses at onlookers, snapping to keep them away, and Mr. Holmes drops the voice amplifier on the floor.]_

_Man: Laters!_

Greg popped a second pastry into his mouth, and grinned broadly through the crumbs. He scanned the article again, lingering on the snake draped all about Sherlock's neck.

Then he just threw his head back and laughed himself silly, right there on his own sofa.

* * *

The establishment of a new normal continued.

If that was even what it could be called. Because Greg was now very definitely in a relationship with _Mycroft Holmes_ : smartest man on the continent, possibly the most dramatic one in the country, and the British Government itself.

He was pretty sure _normal_ wasn't a word that applied, right about now.

He was _also_ pretty sure John was off celebrating the news on his continued magical safari adventure, and that he was going to finally get to pay Sherlock back for the heart attack that the bastard had given him when the pair finally made it back to London.

As for Greg...

None of it, really, was all that different.

The deliveries continued. His new team very quickly grew endeared to him, on account of the fact that he was just about the only officer at the Yard to consistently provide free hot coffee and the occasional pastry every morning. Mycroft, at least, did leave the casework to him. Whether the cases just didn't interest him, like they did Sherlock, or he knew Greg wanted to go it on his own, the most that he could figure out to be Mycroft's interference was just in the morning coffees.

The clandestine meetings, also, continued. Usually at the Diogenes Club, whenever they had a classified update from Sherlock and John to share disbelief over, but-- sometimes not. Sometimes in public. Greg took pity on Mycroft and allowed for a compromise: if Mycroft agreed no more unprompted first class plane tickets and five star restaurant reservations, then Greg would concede to no more crowded cafes meant for people squarely several levels of poshness below the Holmes family's pedigree. What lay in between still wasn't all that normal, because _Mycroft_ wasn't normal-- dinner and a movie was bit out of the question, and the very idea of meeting for drinks at a pub was hysterical. _Mycroft Holmes,_ at the greasy bar around the corner from his flat, with over-slated chips and rugby always on the screens. Greg would've been the one to have a heart attack.

But they could still manage dinner, at the middle road between holes in the wall and palaces meant for royalty. A few sleek car rides, which probably _were_ meant for royalty, but they were free transportation and always managed to be interesting so, hell, Greg would take it.

It was-- nice, in a way. To be in a relationship so full of ridiculous drama, but to know it was never going to be about what he'd always fought about with his ex-wife. The headache-inducing, trivial bullshit. _You worked too late_ or _you're not wearing the jacket I bought you_ or _you never take my anywhere nice._ Instead it was kidnappings off the kerb, and unsigned deliveries in the middle of the day that were so spot-on he knew he was being surveilled, and, if Mycroft was anything like Sherlock, knowing he'd probably never get another birthday present again.

Well, he was a bit too old and tired to still be mindful about the birthdays, anyway.

**The British Government / 17:31**

Dinner, 6pm tomorrow?

**The British Government / 17:31**

Anthea tells me to tell you that the establishment is "$$$"

Greg grinned. Oh, he owed Anthea a bloody fruit basket.

_**typing...** _

_give her a hug for m_

"Sir!"

A car horn blared in his ears, and Greg's sergeant yanked him back out of the crosswalk a hair's breadth away from the oncoming taxi.

"Sir, please be careful--"

"I'm okay," he assured. His heart pounding and he cleared his throat, willing himself to take a breath. "I'm fine. Really--"

"He almost hit you! He almost, I thought..." She stood back and stared at him with wide eyes, then after the taxi, then back to him again, her alarm transforming into narrow-eyed worry. "I thought I saw...."

Greg knew what she thought she'd seen. Because he thought he'd seen it, too. He thought she _hadn't_ pulled him out of the way in time. He'd heard the screeching brakes and seen the glare of the headlights and thought he'd been hit. There hadn't been time for the car to swerve. But-- there clearly must have been. They'd swerved and he'd flinched back and he'd thought it hadn't been enough, but it obviously had, because here he was, obviously, right as rain, and... and...

_People will believe what they see, and see only what they believe. Unless confronted with the impossible very directly, they will rationalise it until it is only the improbable._

Realisation dawned.

**The British Government / 17:32**

CEASE AND DESIST IMMEDIATELY

**The British Government / 17:32**

PAY ATTENTION TO WHERE YOU ARE GOING

"Oh, for god's sake..." Greg switched course, dialing for a phone call instead of a mere text in reply. He went so far as to glare at the nearest camera and turned his sergeant off as he set off in the opposite direction-- this wasn't a conversation that he needed an eavesdropper for. After, yes, making triply sure to check that the light really was red.

"Gregory! Are you--"

"I'm _fine,_ Mycroft, and for the last time, quit spying on me. How many times do I need to tel you to quit spying on me?"

"How many times will I need to tell _you_ to look both ways before you cross the road? You're worse than Sherlock!"

Despite the lecture, he sounded alarmed, not annoyed-- Greg figured that watching someone you were in a relationship with nearly walk into traffic could do that to a guy. He might've teased him about it, and told him to let this be a lesson to why you _didn't_ spy on everyone via CCTV, but at the moment, he had something much more important in mind. "Yeah, speaking of him. You know how you said before, that John was keeping an eye out for me? That he was-- you know..."

_Keeping me safe in ways I probably shouldn't spell out on an unsecured line in public?_

Mycroft, while silent for a moment, was more than smart enough to put the pieces together on his own. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, the alarm had faded, and in its place was a crisp and strained business-like air. "I do."

"Yeah," Greg muttered again. "Well, we might want to get in touch with him about what _exactly_ he meant..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All feedback is welcome and appreciated!!! Thank you so much for reading, and stay healthy! <3
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr!](https://problematic-ranowa.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments/kudos along the way-- as promised, a quick final update! 
> 
> See you next time!!! <3

Two days after nearly being sideswiped out of a sidewalk, through what Greg maintained was no fault of his own and what Mycroft insisted was a very good reason to outlaw all taxis within five blocks of his flat, he finally got to see it for himself: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, alive, fairly well, and up to their necks in incredible amounts of mayhem.

Most notably, stepping out of Mycroft's fireplace.

John came first, materialising in a burst of bright green flame and looking about as cool as a cucumber about it. He strode out of it even with a little spring in his step, like it was a perfectly normal to do, _popping up out of thin air while on fire,_ and turned to them both with a crisp, business-like smile. "Mycroft," he greeted, "Greg. Good to see you."

A moment later, Sherlock followed. Materialising in the exact same plume of green fire, and stepping out with an attempt at being as collected as John, but one that failed miserably when his face and hair were streaked with soot, his shoulders and shoes with ash, and his first step out was in time with a rough, snooty sort of cough.

"Your fireplace is abhorrent," Sherlock sniffed, tugging on his scarf as haughtily as he could. "And you have the gall to call my flat a dump."

"It's good to see you too, brother mine."

"Hm." Sherlock straightened his famous coat, and then shifted around, lowering his gaze down to Greg. "And you! Needing me to save the day as usual, Graham?"

Greg calmly pushed up to his feet, and pulled Sherlock, soot, ash, and all, into the tightest hug that he could.

"Wh-- what are you-- _doing,_ I--"

"You will _never_ do that to any of us again. Is that clear?"

"I--" Sherlock spluttered again, sounding like he'd just swallowed his tongue. " _Gary._ "

John stepped up when Greg let go, particularly pleased of himself while Sherlock continued to look befuddled and taken aback, his eyes big and his jaw slack. "That's right," John agreed, squeezing Sherlock on the shoulder. "And _I'm_ the one here to save the day. _You,_ Your Highness, are just here for entertainment. So Sherlock, you, sit down and play nice with your brother, and Greg, you sit down as well, and let me get started. I'll get everything straightened up right away."

In very short order, Greg found himself sat down at an incredibly nice coffee table, feeling a bit like he was under a microscope, while John circled around him and Sherlock pouted on the sofa. This time, at least, he did not have any giant snakes about his neck, baby dragons in his arms, or a flopping fish tail instead of legs.

"Take a breath," John advised, patting his shoulder again. "Relax. It doesn't hurt. Anymore than being hit by a car would've been, anyway." He withdrew his wand with a quiet _snick,_ and this time, the tap to his shoulder was by his wand instead of his hand. " _Protego."_

It was a funny feeling, an even funnier sight. Just the faintest shiver in the air around him, a slight rippling as John moved, tapping his wand in sharp little raps again and again. He muttered under his breath and meanwhile, across the room, Sherlock flopped himself down on his brother's couch with his feet up and his arms behind his head, looking as if his new goal in life was to be as much of a pain to Mycroft as he could.

"It's incredible, you know," he said, flicking a finger at Greg. "I had John test it with me-- those'll stop just about any physical matter. It's _fascinating."_

"Physical matter with ill intent," John corrected, and gave his shoulder another tap. "So Mycroft here can give you a hug, but if he tries to punch you, it'll skate right off."

"My brother is incapable of _hugging_ anyone without malicious intent."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, with a smile like butter on toast. "How little you know."

Sherlock stiffened. He looked up at his brother, standing there, looking about as pleased as a cat that had got the canary. He looked down at Greg, then back up to Mycroft.

"Oh, _God,"_ he moaned, and just about shrunk out of existence on the spot. "It's _true."_

Greg rolled his eyes but there was no heat in it. He knew Sherlock, and this wasn't Sherlock, genuinely bothered. This was Sherlock's standard state of dramatics. "What a way to welcome a guy into the family."

With another smile, Mycroft joined him from behind, standing just far enough back that John could continue... whatever it was that John was doing. "The insult was intended to me," he said smoothly. "I believe if Sherlock could disown me and adopt you instead, he would." He lingered a moment, the mere weight of his presence at his shoulder nearly all-encompassing. "Can I offer anyone a biscuit or tea, then?"

Sherlock grumbled something from his ball, prompting another eye roll from John as the man stood back, observing his handiwork. "Looks good, I think. You should be safe until Sherlock and I finish up." He paused for a moment, glancing between Mycroft and Greg, raising an eyebrow at the biscuit that was, indeed, in Mycroft's hand. "You really shouldn't be bandying those about, you know. Sherlock made them."

Mycroft stopped chewing.

And Greg, for his part, was suddenly remembering the _very similar_ looking batch of biscuits he'd gotten in his own last magical delivery, and that were already left, half-eaten, on his counter.

"Sherlock _baked bis--"_

"Oh, it doesn't _matter,"_ Sherlock huffed, and suddenly he was on his feet, scowling about with his hackles raised, but underneath at all he somehow managed to look more at home than Greg had ever seen him. "Though your confidence in my cooking ability is flattering, they were left over from the results of the experiment. The _failed_ experiment, so they're perfectly safe to--"

"You gave us your junk science as _food?"_ Greg had a sudden inclination to scrub a toothbrush over his tongue. What the hell had he eaten? They'd tasted perfectly fine at the time, not at all like a science experiment, but--

Sherlock huffed again and flopped back down, flinging an arm about with the dramatic air of a thespian. "It's not junk science. Or it _is_ , but that is not my fault. John insists that it works, but how could it? There is no chemical balance that can create the sensation that he describes! A sharp rise in oxytocin could mimic some of the symptoms, but only some of them, and so could an increase in dopamine, but to replicate such a sense of infatuation, it's... well, it's no matter what it is, because it _doesn't work!_ " He scowled again, waving his hand at them to brush away an imaginary fly. "The biscuits were leftover, and amounted to ordinary biscuits, because the potion _doesn't work._ Which I should've known from the start, because the sheer concept is _absolutely absurd._ But what else was I meant to do with them? The polite thing to do with leftovers is to give them away, isn't it?"

Well, maybe it was, but somehow Sherlock had managed to make it sound like he was feeding stray dogs off the street...

Grinning again, John stepped back to rejoin the sulking genius on the sofa. "Don't mind him," he said, giving his head a quick pat. "He's just whinging because he can't make a love potion."

"A _love potion?"_

Mycroft and Greg repeated it together, Mycroft sounding just as disparaging as Sherlock while Greg was suddenly terrified of the biscuits left behind in his kitchen. What on earth had Sherlock fed them?

"Yes," John agreed, smiling still. "A mild one, to be safe-- I made sure. Love potions can do some really messed up stuff if they're strong enough, and we didn't want to hurt you two, of course. But it was a love potion."

Sherlock muttered again from his grumbling ball of sulk. "We'd not have hurt anyone. Because _love potions_ aren't real."

"For the last time, Sherlock, they are."

"Yes, well, _mine_ certainly wasn't." He harrumphed and crossed his arms, still at least a little bit like an overgrown child. Greg wasn't sure he'd ever be able to mind it again. "You two can attest to it as well, can't you? You clearly felt no ill effects. Correct?"

"I--" Greg stopped, turning back to Mycroft. Somewhat unsurprisingly, he looked about ready to throttle his brother, but despite having just eaten the apparently poisoned food item, he also looked perfectly fine. Greg, too, felt just fine himself. Had felt perfectly fine all week. He'd barely registered the biscuits at all, and, in fact, had remembered being a little disappointed by them-- John's magical chocolate had been much more worthy of the name. These had just tasted like ordinary biscuits.

Mycroft cleared his throat, and seemed to make it a point to sit down next to Greg. "We feel quite fine," he said, clearing his throat. "No thanks to you, evidently."

"Will you relax? I told you already, I tested it on myself first. It didn't work."

"And I told _you,_ already, Sherlock," John sighed, "yours worked just _fine._ You just didn't like the results."

"I tested it! I tested it on myself, and I felt nothing! Nothing at all like the books said that I should, you were there, John, you _saw!"_

John still looked unbearably pleased of himself, for some reason. Just sat there, beaming on the couch next to a sulking genius that tempted fate with every breath that he took. "Sherlock," he started, "did you actually _read_ the entire chapter?"

"Of course!" he cried, affronted. "Of course I did, John! And nothing you say will ever convince me that such a childish, puerile notion of a _love potion_ is--"

"Did you read the part warning that a love potion will have no effect if those that you use it on are already in love?"

"Will you _please_ cease using such an unscientific, unquantifiable--"

"And do you remember who,exactly, that love potion was meant to make you fall in love with?"

Sherlock stopped short. His bright eyes widened, and his little sulk of a ball transformed into a silent, open-mouthed statue of surprise.

The source of John's triumph finally became clear.

John beamed again, his smile broadening; he seemed to have at last found the trick to spelling Sherlock silent. "I love you, too," he said, this time with a kiss on the cheek to a stunned, pink-faced Sherlock. Greg was pretty sure the man had stopped breathing.

Then, John turned his gaze back onto him and Mycroft. Greg was finally starting to understand how _this_ John Watson had ordered even Mycroft around as easily as he corralled Sherlock into drinking tea. "And as for _you two,"_ he began. "Like I said-- a bit milder than the one Sherlock first whipped up. I diluted it with a bit of Gurdyroot before letting him spike the biscuits. But you both should've felt something. Unless..."

Greg blinked back at Mycroft. He, clearly, shared his brother's opinions on the absurdity of anything called a _love potion,_ but there was a new glimmer there because he couldn't commit to the skepticism. Not all the way. And Greg, after watching John step out of a fireplace and bombard him with owls and be joined by a breathing Sherlock Holmes, shared the sentiment. He still wasn't sure which was the biggest miracle.

And now, this walking miracle was telling him he'd been dosed with a _mild love potion,_ and, for _Mycroft bloody Holmes_... nothing had changed. And apparently, Mycroft had felt just the same.

"Well, then," John announced, clearing his throat."I think we're done here. Sherlock?"

Poor Sherlock looked just about as surprised as Greg, even as he allowed John to hustle him back to his feet. "Did you _trick me_ into supporting this most unholy of alliances? Did this happen because of me?"

"Pretty sure they were already together, Sherlock. Be nice; you said not two days ago you thought they were well-suited for each other. In about five times as many words, in which I think you somehow managed to call your brother a toad, but you still said it." He grinned, then gave a still spluttering Sherlock another nudge to pivot him back around to face the fireplace. "We'll be back home soon, for good, in just a few weeks. Promise. Until then, Greg, really try not to get yourself shot at, and Mycroft, make sure you don't offer those biscuits to anyone else. Not unless you want your boyfriend here to gather a collection of new admirers."

On that, with an air of a finality, John walked straight into Mycroft's fireplace, drawn up to his full height and the smallest, most familiar sort of smile. He nodded at Sherlock, then cleared his throat. _"Diagon Alley."_

John vanished again in a rush of green smoke and fire.

There was another moment of awkward silence. Sherlock tugged on his coat again, eying the fireplace himself with just a glimmer of skepticism and dusting at the ash on his shoulders a second time, but followed him without any spoken protest.

In the fireplace, now, Sherlock looked quietly between them both, his eyes bright. He met Mycroft's gaze for a moment, the two brothers exchanging the sort of silent communication that all siblings could.

"Best of luck," he said, inclining his head in a very slight nod. At first, Greg wasn't sure which one of them he was addressing, but then Sherlock met his eyes with a small smile. "To the both of you. _Diagon Alley."_

Sherlock vanished in the same green fire as John had, and Greg, now sufficiently re-protected in the magical equivalent of a plastic bubble, was left back alone with Mycroft.

"Well," Mycroft said, after a beat of disbelieving silence. "That was certainly... illuminating." He very deliberately prodded the biscuit even further away from him with one finger, almost as if he expected it to grow fangs and bite him. "That's as close to Sherlock can get to saying he approves, I think."

Greg knew Sherlock well enough himself to agree. That had been approval, from London's own consulting detective. Which hadn't really been something that he'd ever been after to begin with, but-- now he had it. As did Mycroft, too, if he thought about it.

There was another pause. Greg had no idea what to say, and Mycroft looked like he'd be drumming his fingers on the table, if he were the sort to do so. He was pretty sure he'd had enough of magic for the time being.

"I think," Mycroft started, then stopped, clearing his throat. "At this point, Anthea tends to be the one to advise me on the wisest course of action. Her impulses have historically been much more well-considered than mine."

"All right." Greg considered his own options, settled back in the incredibly comfortable chair in one of the most secure sitting rooms in the commonwealth. He also considered Mycroft, standing there with his hands behind his back and seeming just not quite sure what to say. "Is your impulse to ask me to stay the night?"

Mycroft's mouth twitched. He looked almost wrong-footed, which was not a look he'd have ever thought he'd see on Mycroft Holmes until very recently, but now he'd seen it, and he was starting to think that he loved it. "I... suppose that it is."

Right, then.

If Sherlock and John could have mermaids, dragons, and each other-- good for them. He was very, truly, sincerely happy for them. After this last year, if that was what they wanted, then they bloody well deserved it.

And after this past year, Greg just wanted something that wasn't quite that mad.

"Give Anthea a raise," Greg said, meeting Mycroft's eyes, and grinned. "I'm staying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> 
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